


The Brain Has Corridors

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Gen, Haunted House, Mental Illness, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve also needs a dad, ghost story, good thing Mamo is a better dad than Joe White ever was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28047495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: Steve's house is haunted. Because how could it not be? Set during season 2.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 38





	The Brain Has Corridors

**Author's Note:**

> tw for mental illness issues including discussion of PTSD; also all of the typical Steve warnings including the loss of his parents...
> 
> Speaking of which, this is set explicitly during season 2. That being said you really don't have to remember specifics from the season in order to read it, except for remembering that Steve still thinks Doris is dead.

_One need not be a Chamber—to be Haunted—  
One need not be a House—  
The Brain has Corridors—surpassing  
Material Place—_

Emily Dickinson

*

Looking back, it probably started with the keys. But it’s hard to know. Any of it—well, most of it—in isolation, wouldn’t be a cause for concern. And it takes Steve a while to realize that it’s not happening in isolation.

The first thing—that he remembers, anyway—is putting his keys on the table, by the door, and finding them on the floor in the morning. A few days later it happens again. First hypothesis: he’s throwing them a bit hard, and they’re sliding off the edge without him realizing. From then on, he tries to be gentler. Still it happens a third time.

He buys a bowl for the table, specifically to leave his keys in; Danny proclaims it unexpectedly civilized of him.

A few days later he wakes up to find the bowl smashed. His keys sit, a dull metal cluster, amidst shards of sea blue ceramic.

Second hypothesis: something that happens on a regular basis—perhaps a heavy vehicle passing?—rattles the table, and sometimes his keys are close enough to the edge to fall off.

But he doesn’t bother testing it any further. As established, in isolation, it’s really a non-issue.

*

The nightmares, realistically speaking, have always been there. He probably hasn’t gone a week without one since Mom died, and obviously the twenty years since then have heaped on plenty of their own fuel. He sees war; sees explosions. Sees Freddie. Sees dehydration and torture and starvation and the kind of food poisoning that isn’t a fucking punchline, that literally might kill you.

He sees Dad, of course. Which is odd, because he didn’t actually watch that happen, only heard the sound of it over the phone. He can picture it pretty vividly, though.

Still, despite all that’s happened in the interim, he’s been dreaming more of Mom, lately. Three times a week, sometimes four, even five. He dreams about her, about the pain she must have felt in her last instant of life. He dreams about her from his childhood, too. But even a pleasant dream becomes a nightmare when he wakes, and remembers.

It must be a function of moving back here. And really, it’s not like it bothers him—at least, not more than the other nightmares he’d just have instead. Besides, dead parent nightmares have to be more commonplace than Navy SEAL nightmares. They’re something he could probably even talk about with someone; something a lot of people could probably understand.

Not that he tries.

*

The thing with the stairs—that’s when Steve begins to vaguely wonder if something’s off. _Vaguely_. Because it’s weird, yeah, but within the realm of normal-weird things; getting out of breath while climbing steps is something that happens to people. Generally not him, but he’s probably a little less fit now, than he was. He hasn’t noticed any reduction in his swimming or running speeds, but just by virtue of associating with Danny Williams he’s eating worse and drinking more than he did in active service.

But the queasiness, though—that’s actually weird. Maybe if he was just breathing a little harder he wouldn’t think much of it, but lately taking the stairs has been making him feel, well—sick. Literally sick. One time it’s so bad that he stumbles directly from the last step into the hallway bathroom and dry heaves over the sink until his vision tunnels.

And to make it even weirder, it’s only _these_ stairs—

*

So, in essence what’s happening is this: he’s having nightmares, a lot of them, and sometimes he feels nauseous and breathless for no reason. And maybe—just _maybe_ —he’s knocking things over without noticing.

Putting it all together like this, the cause is pretty clear: he’s having some sort of stress reaction. Not great news, but he’s hardly the first. And though he’s not one to run to a shrink and sob his guts out, he knows he’s got to handle it.

This kind of shit gets men grounded.

So he handles it, as best he knows how; drinks less, swims more, sets aside a few minutes every day for breathing exercises. Spends more time with the team. Spends more time out of the house in general, because that seems to be where the stress feels the worst, even though that doesn’t really make sense.

(Or maybe it does.)

And he surfs. Surfs more than even in his high school years, which is really saying something. Surfs with the cousins, and Mamo, and even Danny. Once in a while he lets himself stay all day (despite the voice that tells him it’s a frivolity, a time-waster) and he spends so long on the water that even as he lies in bed he feels himself rocked by the swells.

These are the nights he dreams the least.

All of this works.

Until it doesn’t.

*

Steve’s been home for a little over a year when the word _Shelburne_ finds its way into his daily vocabulary. It’s around this time, too, when all that other— stuff— finally becomes impossible to ignore.

Which makes sense. It’s all just stress. Only, it doesn’t quite feel that way.

Maybe it’s the case at the heiau. Or how Danny— skeptical, sarcastic Danny Williams— spends the entire time claiming not to believe in anything only to turn around and announce that he himself has seen a ghost and that is why they have to help him move twice in one weekend.

Maybe it’s just because it’s Halloween. 

Whatever the reason, all the nightmares and the feeling sick and the stuff falling off tables on its own starts to feel a little, well— spooky.

Not that he says this to anyone. But the fact is that, unlike Danny, Steve 100% believes in higher powers and the afterlife and, yeah, that includes ghosts.

Actually he thought he’d seen one, once. It was fifth grade. He went on a school visit to Pearl Harbor and convinced himself that he saw his grandfather: young and strong just like in the pictures, waving to him from the memorial as the boat disembarked. At the time he’d been sure. In fact, he’d believed it so strongly that he’d written about it as his favorite part in his essay about the field trip.

He’d had to talk to the teacher after class. She’d been nice about it, really. Said that yes, it was a sad place to visit, especially for someone with a personal connection, and of course it must be hard to love and miss somebody he’d never met in person. But she’d made clear the truth of the matter.

No ghost. No such thing.

Which had hurt more than expected, but he’d swallowed back the urge to cry and hurried along to math class. And he hadn’t questioned it. Not for years.

But— if a place were going to be haunted, Jesus, then Pearl would be a good candidate, wouldn’t it?

And frankly so would this house.

John McGarrett died here. He was _murdered_ here.

And maybe Doris McGarrett didn’t die inside the house; but Steve knows now that she was murdered, too.

*

So the next weekend (because he doesn’t have to help Danny move again, thank _God_ ) Steve puts the Shelburne thing on pause. Just for two days. The heiau got him thinking not only about spirits but about respecting them, too.

He hasn’t been _dis_ respectful. He’s kept the house tidy and in repair; left its decorations mostly unchanged; waited over a month after Dad’s death before moving into the master bedroom.

But maybe it hasn’t been enough.

So he decides to devote the full weekend to a good old-fashioned November spring cleaning.

Saturday, he wakes up even earlier than usual. Starts in the kitchen, where he scrubs every surface and dustbusters every corner. From there he works through the entire downstairs. And, more than cleaning, he tries to _admire_ : to thank the house, and its former inhabitants, for the memories left behind. When he finds an old photo album, he stops to look through it. When he finds a stray crayon mark (somehow overlooked in two decade’s worth of cleaning) he stops to think about how young Mary must have been when she put it there.

Inch by inch, room by room, he scours. _Making peace_ has never seemed to him like an active thing; but today peace is indeed something he’s actively creating.

He doesn’t sleep in the master bedroom that night. It’s not that he thinks that Dad actually begrudges it; somehow it just feels too tender. Instead he returns to his childhood bedroom. Curls up on a thirty-year-old twin mattress and, exhausted by a full day of labor both physical and emotional, falls quickly to sleep.

*

But the dreams are worse than ever: ordinary remembrances soured, interspersed with the memories of funerals.

Despite the recency of Dad’s, it’s Mom’s he sees more.

It’s still pitch black out the window when Steve gives up on sleep; but all he does, instead of dreaming of her death, is lie there and think about it instead.

He thinks about her funeral. Even more so he thinks about finding out: about the moment that Dad answered the door, and three of the guys from his unit were standing there with face of cracked stone. Steve had been behind his dad, looking at the men, when they delivered the news.

She didn’t make it, they said. And the whole world had just— glitched.

One of the HPD guys, he can’t even remember which one, had sort of taken over for him, then. Sat him down on the steps, got his head between his knees. Rubbed his back, hummed his name. Made no fuss at all when he started bawling, still none when he threw up all over both their shoes.

He'd coped all right in the following days.

But hot damn he had _not fucking coped_ in that moment.

Looking back, he thinks he had the right to fall apart. He was 16, with a strict dad, sure, but no actual military training yet; and it was the first real loss in his life.

He’d had the right, then.

Now? He’s not really sure.

*

Once the sun is up, Steve starts up again: he’s tackling the bedrooms and the attic, today. It’s a nice rhythm to fall into. He even thinks about playing some music while he does it, but decides the sounds of scrubbing and vacuuming are enough to go by.

Today’s a bit harder than yesterday. The attic, especially, is full of mom’s old things; and as before he makes himself look through them, instead of just dusting them off. He looks through some picture albums. Takes out some dresses; pretends they smell like her and not like must and mothballs. Finds a storage container full of her school stuff. There’s books of lesson plans; gifts from students; and a framed photo of him and Mary as children, which must have sat on Mom’s desk.

More than once he thinks about letting himself cry. Tucking up in a quiet corner, or maybe the shower, and not-coping again, for a little while.

But he doesn’t.

At least, not then.

He finishes with the attic, and that’s pretty much the last of the emotional chores. That done, he turns to more everyday stuff. He’s behind on laundry, which seems nice and mindless, so he gathers a load in his arms and heads downstairs to the wash.

The fabric smells like sweat, and his own deodorant. He clutches the clothes to his chest and thinks about what Danny would say if he saw him eschewing the hamper, but c’mon, Danny has some uncivilized habits of his own—

And then, a few steps from the bottom, Steve does something he hasn’t done in years. Maybe decades.

He trips, and falls.

A split second later he’s sprawled on the ground, laundry spilled from his arms and strewn around him. He’s ended up flat on his back. For a moment he just lies there, feeling dazed and almost concussed, though that makes no sense. He knows how to fall without injury. And the sting in his shoulder confirms that he’s done so properly. Not to mention he didn’t fall far. But he hurts— his whole fucking body hurts— skin and joints and muscles and bones all just _hurt_.

Steve hurts so badly he starts to cry.

Tears pour down the sides of his face, dripping into his hair, his ears: the tears he’s been holding back all day. He doesn’t hold them back any longer. Just closes his eyes and lets them come; just lies there on the hardwood, surrounded by crumpled clothes, and weeps. And the fucking thing is? He’s not even really crying about Mom, or Dad; he just feels so hurt and sick and wretched and _alone_ that in the moment there is nothing else to do about it.

He lets himself cry for maybe half a minute. Then embarrassment overtakes misery, and he scrubs his eyes and hoists himself into a sitting position.

And then, he sees it.

It’s just a blur, almost a ripple; like it would look if air could show reflections in the same way that water does. But it’s undeniable. And it is undeniably human-shaped, too: head and torso and arms and legs and it stands, it stands on the third step from the bottom, and though it has no eyes Steve can feel it staring down at him for a long, long moment before it turns, takes a few step upwards, and vanishes.

Navy fucking SEAL Steve may be, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t almost piss himself.

That was— a ghost.

That actually was an actual fucking ghost.

He leaves the clothes where they are. Grabs his keys from the table; scrambles out of his house and into his truck, and drives.

*

It’s over an hour before he manages to pull off the highway, and the it’s only because he can’t afford to run out of gas. He doesn’t have his wallet. Doesn’t have his phone either, so he couldn’t even call anyone— not that he’d want to get in that situation anyway, of having to account for why he’s stuck by the side of the road, without money or shoes, trembling head to toe and with the salt of old tears still itchy on his face.

He needs to go home.

He needs to go home, and pick all that laundry up, and—

Fuck.

Oh, fuck.

How the fuck can he go home, when his home is actually haunted?

 _Haunted_. He swills the word around in his mind, until the letters themselves begin to distort.

His house is actually, literally haunted.

*

Fuck it; his house is not haunted.

That’s absurd.

Believing in ghosts does _not_ give a guy permission to abandon common sense, Steve muses, as he parks the truck in his driveway and readies himself to go back inside.

There can’t be a ghost. No, he just— he needs sleep. Sleep and maybe a few days off and maybe, quite frankly, that shrink appointment after all.

There’s no ghost. Just a stress reaction which is, apparently, getting worse.

Being a SEAL was tough; coming home was, in some ways, tougher. Losing Dad? Also tough. Finding out Mom was murdered? Same. It’s no surprise he’s going a little— sideways.

He’ll handle it. Keep up with the surfing and the breathing exercises; and he’ll start counseling. As soon as he has a free minute. As soon as he figures out this thing with Shelburne.

For the moment, all of this has been enough to get him back in the house; so he picks up the laundry, gets it started in the wash, and gets the dishwasher going too, for good measure. Makes dinner, something small for his uneasy stomach.

The weekend’s almost over. And he made good use of it; it might not seem this way at the moment, but he’s taking steps towards feeling better. He’s continuing to make that peace.

*

Peace is harder than he expected.

That night he sleeps in his childhood bed again. Doesn’t fall asleep until well after midnight; at some point after that, he wakes to the sound of a scream—

Just in time to watch the ghost disappear from the room.

*

A few days later Danny finds mold in his new place, and Steve has maybe never been happier about anything else in his life.

He hides it, of course. Grumbles about dishes left in the sink and clothes left in the drier; but the truth is that Danny’s presence makes him feel comfortable in his own home, for the first time in weeks.

He has seen the ghost four times now. He finds his keys on the floor more often than not and, oh, the front door has taken to slamming even when he tries to close it very, very gently.

But with Danny around, things almost feel normal. They bicker, and eat meals together, and watch movies, and bicker some more. Danny sits around in boxers and bitches about the lack of AC. Steve goes back to sleeping in the master and referring to his old room as the _guest_ room (even though Danny prefers to sleep on the couch).

They argue about that, too. He just doesn’t get why Danny prefers not to sleep in an actual bed— talk about uncivilized!— but the guy insists. Mostly he says it’s because of the TV. Though sometimes he says it’s because it’s cooler downstairs, and once, unexpectedly, he gave an answer that actually spooked Steve a little.

 _To be perfectly, perfectly honest_ , Danny’d said, _there is something about your guest room that—_

_What?_

_I dunno, that gives me the creeps, okay?_

_My guest room gives you the creeps?_ Steve had tried his best to sound offended, but of course his mind had gone elsewhere. Was it the ghost? Had Danny seen it?

And then Danny had given a vulgar reply about how it used to be Steve’s room, as a teenager, and he didn’t want to sleep in the same bed where his buddy jerked off for the first time, and—

Steve had dropped it. Immediately.

The truth is that part of him has really been wanting Danny to see the ghost too; though of course that would mean it’s not just in Steve’s head. Which it is.

Despite the fact that he never feels sick or sees anything out of the ordinary at work, or on the beach, or anywhere else besides the house.

But Danny doesn’t seem to see anything.

At least, not at first.

Danny’s been around maybe a week or so, when it happens; Steve’s about to head upstairs when Danny grabs the remote and clicks the TV on his usual channel of infomercials. Not eager to sleep— he never is, these days— Steve decides to argue instead.

“TV on again? You managed to keep it off last night.” It’s true; yesterday, for the first time, Danny gave a go at sleeping like a normal human being.

Danny waves a hand dismissively. “No, I’m gonna put it on again tonight. Last night, I tried, didn’t work out so well.”

“The water torture?” Steve suggests, diverting from his path and plopping beside Danny on the couch.

“You know it was— not as absolutely horrible as it could have been. After a while. But I did, uh, kind of get to listen to the, um, ambient sounds of the house.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And while we’re on the topic, I actually, uh. I wanted to mention something, huh?”

“Okay.”

“Listen. We’re friends, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good friends?”

“Well, you’re staying at my house, so.”

“Bite me,” Danny snaps. “I’m your best friend, and you’re mine.”

And despite it all Steve can’t help but smile a little, because okay, it’s not really a surprise, but it’s nice to hear. “I guess you could say that,” he replies, earning him an exaggerated eyeroll. But Danny’s humor fades abruptly.

“Well, I been meaning to ask, and now that we’re on the subject— I wanna ask you how you’re doing.”

“Why?”

“Last night— I kinda heard somebody, y’know. Crying.”

“Crying, like— shouting?”

“Crying like _weeping_ , Steven, Jesus.”

So this is it; this is when he tells him. This is when he breaks down and begs his best friend for help because there’s a fucking ghost in his fucking house.

And he does. Sort of.

“Guess I should have told you this place’s haunted,” he says, with a shrug.

“Fine. Whatever. I was just trying to be nice.”

“I note this, and I appreciate it. But I honestly wasn’t crying. Seriously, man, you must have been imagining things.”

“Fine. Okay. Guess I’m losing my mind listening to the goddamn ocean all night.”

“Thanks for asking, though.”

“Mm. No, you know what? That’s good. Because that would have been really awkward, honestly.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you’d’a said somethin’ like, actually, the whole thing with Wo Fat and my parents has me kind of emotional, and I’m not really giving myself time to process—”

“That would’ve been weird.”

“Right. And I probably would’ve hugged you, and you would’ve gotten the front of my shirt all snotty—”

“No thanks.” Steve stands. “Enjoy the infomercials.” And, he goes.

Danny calls a quiet _goodnight_ after him, as ascends the stairs, but Steve doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have the energy. His heart is beating so hard that he can feel its pressure all the way down to his fingertips; and every spare bit of energy is focused exclusively on not hopping in the truck and retreating again.

Somebody was crying in the house last night. Loud enough that Danny could hear it; long enough he felt the need to say something.

There are really only two possibilities. One, Steve’s been crying in his sleep; it’s loud enough to be heard downstairs, but he still doesn’t wake himself up.

That’s scenario one; and, frankly, Steve doesn’t buy it.

And scenario two?

Is that the ghost is fucking real.

Actually, unequivocally real.

*

Danny stays for a few weeks. And Steve prays, maybe harder than he ever has before; prays that Danny will hear something again. Or better yet, see something. Even just _sense_ something of the ghost, so that Steve’s not the only one, so that maybe this is actual and terrifying but at least he’s not crazy.

Nothing happens. The ghost is quiet while Danny’s around, and while in some ways that’s disappointing, it’s also a nice reprieve, too.

Then Danny leaves, and everything starts again.

Steve stays out as much as he can manage. Eats dinner at Kamekona’s truck, or at Danny’s house; even sleeps in his office once or twice. And when he is home, he’s out by the water more often than not.

Basically trying anything not to be inside the house.

Maybe be tries too hard.

In late November he’s captured. Held captive in North Korea, tortured for information; and the fuck of it all is, the first night he finally sleeps in his own bed again, he almost wishes he hadn’t been brought home.

The others insist he take time off to rest. It’s the worst thing he could do. For forty-eight hours he doesn’t leave the house; and he sees the ghost three times.

Fuck recuperation.

He simply cannot stay home.

*

Whatever this is hits some sort of a breaking point. His first morning back to work, Steve chokes down a protein bar and a glass of orange juice for breakfast; halfway to the palace he has to pull over to vomit it all up on the shoulder of the road.

Apparently he’s just sick all the time, now. Home, not home, it doesn’t matter.

This just isn’t getting better; that’s the truth of it. He’s sleeping less, dreaming more. Exhausted, all the fucking time, not only from lack of sleep but from the lack of calories he actually manages to keep down.

On edge and bleary and thirty seconds from crying more often than not. 

Somehow he staggers on through the winter. Thinks about up and running away sometimes, but never does. Shelburne is his problem to solve. And so, in truth, is the ghost.

So he stays— though, yes, he’s beyond relieved when he realizes in February that it’s time for his reserve drill. Even more so when his request is approved to serve it on Catherine’s ship.

It’s the best week he’s had in ages. Military drills and military mess halls, and stolen moments with his favorite girl. And for a moment life almost feels normal again.

And then he’s home.

The second he steps inside the door, his eyes begin to water— and not just from the smoke of Danny’s ruined frittata.

The ghost is standing on the stairs, and, fuck it.

He’s so tired.

He’s _so_ _goddamn tired_.

*

The doorbell rings one evening, a week or two later. It just so happens that Steve’s actually inside the house, to hear it. He shuffles over to it and peeks through the peep hole, brought nearly to tears when he sees Danny’s familiar face mugging back at him. He clears his throat and opens the door.

“Forgot something while I was here,” Danny explains, then invites himself inside.

But rather than go searching for anything, he plops down on the couch.

Steve frowns. “What’d you forget?”

“Oh, I didn’t actually forget anything,” Danny recants, flashing a tight grin. “That was my excuse to come in, see? I’m here because I wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay.” Steve settles at the couch’s other end. “What are we talking about?”

“Uh. You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t get it,” Steve replies, although he does. He does, and it’s clear that Danny knows he does, because he huffs loudly and throws up his hands, briefly.

“I’m sitting here, your best friend—”

“Kamekona’s my best friend,” Steve grumbles; almost said Kono but Danny might have believed that, and Steve doesn’t actually like hurting his feelings.

“Okay. Fine. I’m sitting here, your friend, and I’m asking— are you okay?”

Somehow this is Steve’s best case scenario and his worst-case scenario, simultaneously.

“Do I seem not okay?”

“You kidding me? Steve, you seem like a wreck. And I tell you what, it was that way even before Korea. I thought you gettin’ away with Catherine for a little while, I thought that might’ve helped, but obviously it didn’t.”

“I said this to you already, it wasn’t a vacation—”

“Okay. Okay. I still thought maybe, change of scenery—”

“The scenery was the ocean—”

“Screw you, look, I wasn’t gonna say this—”

“ _You_? Weren’t gonna say something?”

“I _wasn’t_. Gonna say this,” Danny insists, flinging his hands up. “But I will. I will say it now, Steven. Do you— do you realize— how much weight you’ve lost?”

It’s not the words that bring moisture to Steve’s eyes, but the way Danny kind of deflates after he says them. “Seriously, man, you— you don’t look good. You don’t. Even Grace said something, the other day, when we had dinner. When I was driving her home, she asked me what was wrong, and I said what, and she said Uncle Steve, he looks sick.”

By now the urge to just huddle against Danny and bawl is nearly overwhelming. Instead Steve sniffles, and rubs the wetness from the corners of his eyes.

“Coming home from the service— it’s a learning curve,” he mutters. “I burn less calories than I used to, so I eat less. Guess I haven’t got it balanced out yet.”

Danny nods. Then, despite nodding, says, “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe you. I think you’re stressed. I think you’re beyond stressed. I think you’re not eating. I know you’re not sleeping. And I’m not really sure what to do about it.”

“Then why are you bringing it up?”

“I dunno! Just so— you don’t think no one sees it. I guess.” Again, that thin, unhappy smile. “It sucks when you feel like shit and nobody else sees it.”

“Yeah.” Steve tries his hardest to smile back. “It does. Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“When you were staying here, did you— did anything seem strange?”

“Strange like how?”

“Stuff being moved, or— or a door closing, on the other side of the house?”

“You think somebody’s been breaking in? You talking, like, surveillance— bugged?”

“No, no, forget it. Forget it.” Steve shakes his head. What the hell had he thought Danny was going to make of that question? “I’m just— I’m on edge, Danno.”

“No kidding.” Danny smiles again. “Hey. Can I give you a hug?”

“No. I don’t want one.”

“Okay. Well. Standing offer, huh. Until then— how can I help, now?”

Once again his eyes are burning, and he dashes this round of tears with a little more force than the last. “I think I need to find Shelburne,” Steve rasps. “I think I’ll be okay, once I have.”

“You really think that’s it? You think that’s gonna just— make it all go away?”

He snorts. Of course finding Shelburne won’t make the ghost go away— but if he can do both of those things, maybe he can get his damn life back. If he had one to begin with.

“I don’t know,” Steve admits, barely louder than a whisper. “It’s the best I’ve got, man.”

Find Shelburne. Get rid of the ghost. Order doesn’t matter, and honestly, he’s not sure which will be harder.

*

The nightmares are constant now. Following him into his waking world, even. He’s vomiting up more meals than he isn’t.

He is seeing the ghost almost every day.

He’s not sure what makes this time different; but one morning so goddamn utterly terrified that he’s got his phone out and his contact lists up before he even knows what he’s doing.

But who to call?

Not Danny. Not Chin or Kono. Maybe this makes him pathetic, maybe it makes him _beyond_ pathetic, but he wants—

Dad.

Or Mom.

He just wants a fucking goddamn _parent_.

(So says the orphan.)

He could call Joe. Pre-Shelburne, he would have, without hesitation.

He could call Deb. But they haven’t really spoken since Dad’s funeral, and what’s she supposed to do all the way out on the mainland, anyway?

Instead Steve scrolls midway down his contacts, taps a name with one trembling finger.

*

By the time Mamo arrives, Steve’s done enough breathing exercises to get himself mostly calm. Calm enough to open the door and invite him in, politely. Calm enough to make two cups of coffee and bring them into the living room to drink.

Calm enough not to burst into tears the instant that Mamo sits on the couch with him.

They make small talk for a few minutes before Steve sets his coffee down and takes a slow, deep breath.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Okay.” Mamo sets his coffee down too, and leans a little closer. “Tell me.”

Steve nods. Here goes.

“It started after I got back. I— I haven’t been feeling so good. Y’know? On edge. Not sleeping, distracted, nauseous. And I thought— I thought it was stress. Y’know. I thought it was— me. But lately, I don’t think so.”

“Lately, you don’t think so.”

“Mamo, I.” He stops to swallow. “I think this house is haunted. I think I have a ghost. I’ve— I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it thirty, forty times by now.” Mamo’s frowning now, and Steve’s stomach flops. “Please don’t look at me like that. Please don’t say you don’t believe me.”

“Hey. Deep breath, okay. I wasn’t going to say anything like that.” Mamo raises one hand; but it’s not defensive, like when Danny does it. It’s placating. “All these years later, you’re still the kid who tried to ride a ten-footer his second day on the water. You’re not afraid of nothing. So I look at you now, and I see how scared you are, and I know something’s wrong. ‘cause Stevie’s never scared.”

Steve laughs, weakly. His hands are shaking, so he goes back to his coffee in the hopes that holding something will steady them. (It does, but only a bit.) “I am. And I’m— I’m lost, Mamo. What the hell am I supposed to do about a _ghost_?”

Mamo purses his lips and thinks before replying. “You think that’s why you’re feeling sick?”

Steve nods.

“And why you’re not sleeping?”

“It wakes me up, sometimes,” Steve whispers. He abandons the coffee again; it’s not like his old friend doesn’t know that he’s a wreck, already. “It screams, or cries. And sometimes I wake myself up, with these— these dreams. Y’know, I’ve had— it’s weird, ‘cause I’ve had worse dreams in my life. But somehow these are the hardest to shake. And they’re all just memories.”

“You’ve been through more than any person should ever have to go through. Losing your mom so young. And after that—” Mamo pauses a moment, clearly choosing his next words with care. “You know I never served,” he says, at last. “I don’t know what life has been like for you. But I saw what the service did to my father. He went over, and not all of him came back. I’m sure you’ve seen it happen.”

Steve nods.

“In his day,” Mamo continues, very gently, “they called it shell shock. Doctors didn’t understand well, back then.”

The words come like ice water, and Steve fights not to shiver.

“I don’t have PTSD,” he snaps. The words sound weak to his ears, but they’re true. He’s been evaluated, half a dozen times. Been told he’s at risk, sure, told what symptoms to watch for and ask loved ones to watch for. And yes. _Fine_. Hallucinating was one of them. And yes, maybe he’d thought that was the reason too, months ago, when this first began.

But this isn’t that; it just isn’t.

This has nothing to do with the service. It has everything to do with coming home, with living in this goddamn house again. The house Doris McGarrett never made it back to. And now, the house where her widower had his brains blasted out of his skull.

“The dreams I’ve been having. They’re not— they’re not about serving. They’re about my mom. The day I lost her. Maybe she’s here—”

Mamo smiles sadly. “Or maybe now is the first time since sixteen that you’re really feeling what losing her did to you.”

The churning in his guts is getting worse now. The coffee’s done nothing to soothe his nerves, and everything to piss off his already-upset stomach. “What it did to me?”

“That was its own trauma, wasn’t it.”

His use of the word is obviously calculated, and every inch of Steve rails against it. “I _don’t have_ PTSD, Mamo.”

“You’ve got something, _keiki_.”

“Yeah; I’ve got a _fucking_ _ghost in my house_!”

“Stevie?”

Steve waves him off. He’s— fuck, okay, he’s definitely going to be sick. He knows all too well now, what this type of inevitability feels like.

“Can I get you something?”

Steve shakes his head. Tries to swallow, but the swallow reverses itself; and he covers his mouth and stumbles to the bathroom. Makes it there, but not quite to the toilet.

Mamo finds him a minute later, hunched up over a puddle of watery puke that at least ended up on the tile and not the hardwood. “ _Keiki_ ,” he sighs. He crouches stiffly at Steve’s side, and passes him a wetted hand towel. Steve takes it with a grunt; wipes it over his nose and mouth, spits into it discreetly.

Then Mamo helps him stand. Together they make it out of the bathroom and into the living room, where Steve drops to the sofa and buries his face in his hands.

He feels warmth, smells sea as Mamo perches close beside him. “I’m sorry I upset you, Stevie. That’s the last thing I meant to do.”

Steve sniffles, swallows; still tasting vomit. “I know,” he grates out. “It’s fine.”

“I’m going to make tea, for your stomach. Coffee was the last thing you needed. I won’t be long.”

Steve raises his head, just in time to see one last glimpse of Mamo as he goes into the kitchen; he feels no better, but for the moment he does feel strangely safe, so he swings his legs onto the couch, curls up, closes his eyes.

A little while later someone’s touching his forehead. Steve cracks his eyes open, sees Mamo leaning over him, smiling sadly. “Here, _keiki_ ,” he murmurs, thumb smoothing over Steve’s temple. “Can you sit up?”

Steve grunts, and flops himself upright; Mamo waits until he’s mostly steady before handing him a warm mug, and settling on the couch beside him. Steve sips hesitantly at the tea.

Mamo sounds equally hesitant as he forces himself to speak, resting a hand on Steve’s forearm as he does so. “I believe in spirits, Steve. I care about you, and I didn’t want to—ignore a possibility. But if you say it’s a spirit, I believe you.”

_I believe you._

Three words that Steve has needed to hear more than any others, and he closes his eyes and lets them surround him. Breathes in, slowly. The tea’s not doing much for the nausea, but having somebody with him, willing to talk to him about— _it_? That’s helping.

“I really— I _genuinely_ think it is.”

“Then, it is.”

“So what do I do?” Steve whispers. “If there’s a ghost here, how do I—how do I—?”

Mamo thinks a long time.

“Spirits don’t hang around for the hell of it,” he says, at last. “If it’s here, it has a purpose. What do you feel, when you’re near it?”

Steve takes a drink of his tea, spends a moment trying to think of a different word before giving up. “Sad.”

“Sad?”

“Miserable. Alone. Just—it feels awful, Mamo. He feels awful. It’s— it’s the worst day of his life.”

And if that’s a strange way to talk about someone who’s no longer living, Mamo doesn’t comment. “Is he scared?”

That’s a harder question, but after a moment Steve shakes his head. “Not really. Not of anything in particular, that’s for sure.” He sips at the tea again, and swallows hard; by now it’s a legitimate effort not to just let it wash back up his throat. “You said it wants something—what do spirits want?”

“Oh, any number of things.” Mamo shrugs. “To protect us. To trick us. Or, if it’s a human spirit, it could want anything that a human could want. Which is anything, really.”

Steve manages a tiny smile, to blunt the mood of his words. “That wasn’t very helpful.”

Mamo laughs. “I guess it wasn’t.”

“Say what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking— that you need a priest,” Mamo admits. Then he lays a hand on Steve’s knee. “But I’m also thinking that it probably took a lot for you to tell even one person about this. So maybe, old Mamo will just have to do. Tell me how to help.”

“I want,” Steve says, hearing his own voice go very, very small. “I want steps. Instructions.”

_I want orders._

Mamo nods, drawing his hand away. “I think,” he says, after another long pause, “I think _sad_ sounds human, eh? And you said _he_ feels awful. Tell me. Do you think the spirit might be John?”

“I thought about that. That’s the first thing I thought. But no, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know if I can explain it.”

“Okay.” Mamo puts his hand back on Steve’s knee; worried he’ll take it away again, Steve moves his own hand to lay just beside it. Mamo chuckles and moves so their fingers touch gently. “The next question I’m going to ask might sound strange. But, try to think hard, before you answer.”

Steve nods.

“You’re scared, to have a ghost in your house. And who wouldn’t be? But are you scared _of him_? Does that question make sense?”

“Yes. And— no, I’m—” Steve’s lungs take a sudden breath, as he realizes. “I’m not scared of him.”

“Then maybe talk to him?” Mamo laughs and curls his hand into a fist to bop Steve’s knee. “I feel like I should add some fine print here, you know. Being _kama_ ' _aina_ doesn’t mean I’m qualified for this.”

“Understood. No, but listen, that’s not why I called you anyway. I called you because— I needed a friend. And you came. And I’m not gonna forget this, okay?”

“Are you going to try? To talk to him?”

Steve nods.

“Today? Okay. Would you like me to stay?”

“No. Thanks. I need to— I need to get my head on straight. I think I have to be alone for that.” He forces a smile. “But maybe—”

“Come by and check on you later?”

“I was gonna say call,” Steve replies. “You don’t have to come all the way back over.”

“Do you mind if I do?”

“No.”

“Then, I will.”

And Mamo goes.

Steve finishes his tea; his stomach’s finally settling. As soon as he feels like he can clean the bathroom without adding to the mess, he does so.

Then he goes outside. Stands at the edge of the water, lets the waves wash over his feet.

What he’d told Mamo is true. Deeply, profoundly true. The ghost himself doesn’t scare him; even the fact of the ghost doesn’t scare him, now that he’s realized this. There’s no anger there. No malice. No strength at all really, which only confirms that it can’t be Dad.

And yet Steve knows him.

The ghost is not a stranger.

*

Inside, by the front door, Steve cups one hand against the wood of the bannister and says the only thing he can think to say.

“I know you’re here. I know you haven’t left. I’ve seen you. I can see you.”

It feels absolutely absurd, speaking alone to the empty staircase; it feels even more so, saying something like this.

But, it’s the truth.

“I can see how sad you are. I can feel it. And if you’re thinking maybe it’s not that bad, maybe you’re exaggerating, you’re not. It’s bad. You’re so sad it’s like you’re dying. Sometimes I think it’s the saddest that anybody’s ever been.

“I wondered if you were my dad. If you were John McGarrett. ‘cause, he died in this house. He died just in that room over there. I thought maybe you were him. But you’re not. ‘cause I feel you, and— I think I know who you are.”

Behind him the front door creaks open. Steve turns, just in time to watch it slam shut again.

Steve’s keys clatter to the floor. The ghost has stumbled backwards, into the table; Steve catches him by the arm and holds him upright. He doesn’t feel solid, exactly, but neither does he feel like nothing. “It’s okay, _keiki_ ,” Steve murmurs. “I’ll help. Let me help.”

He guides him towards the staircase. The ghost staggers, pulls away; gets as far as the third step before he sinks, knees giving out.

Steve stands before him, looks him over. He’s no more than smoke, but in that smoke Steve sees flashes of personhood. Sees a little boy with big hazel eyes.

Sees himself, almost twenty years ago.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs, settling lightly on the step. “Can I sit with you?”

It’s barely a whisper. “Yeah.”

Then he falters. Doesn’t know what to say next, so he just puts his arm around the ghost’s back; it turns towards him, burrowing closer.

Steve gasps. Sickness and sadness nearly overwhelm him, but he pulls in a deep breath, and steadies.

“Listen,” he says, squeezing the kid closer, “this is the worst day you’ve ever had. One of the worst days you’ll ever have, ever. But you know what that means? Most of the others, they won’t be this bad.”

There’s a flinch of movement against him, then the sound of ragged breathing. Steve adjusts his hold, helps the kid put his head between his knees. “Stevie,” he hums, letting his eyes slip shut. “It’s okay, Stevie. I’ve got you.”

The sobbing intensifies; turns at some point to coughing, then retching. Steve keeps his eyes closed, rubs the kid’s back in slow, measured rhythm as his guts turn inside out. “It’s okay, _keiki_. No, it’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“I wan’,” Stevie gets out, still gagging a little. “I wan’ my mom. But she—but she—she—”

“I know. Hey, I know. Don’t try to talk right now, okay?”

“She—she—”

“She died,” Steve whispers. “She’s dead.”

“Are you s-sure?” Stevie shifts, raises his head to the light; his face is drenched in tears and there’s drool on his lower lip. Steve sighs, brushes hair back from his sweaty forehead.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“I jus’—I just s-saw her this morni’g.”

“Hey, it’s hard to believe. Feels almost impossible. But not believing it, that’s not gonna help.”

Stevie’s chin buckles, and he huddles closer, burying his face in Steve’s chest.

“Okay,” Steve murmurs, and hugs him tightly. Feels his own tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping into Stevie’s hair. “I know how you feel, okay?” he whispers. “And I’m not just saying that. I lost my mom. When I was your age. And then ‘bout a year and a half ago I lost my dad. And it’s hard to be in this house, because it just— reminds me of him. Home should be some place you feel safe, but— sometimes I think it’s where I feel worst. And, you too, huh?”

Against his chest, Stevie nods. Tries to look up, can’t manage; burrows back down again.

“But it’s okay. We’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

“Can you—” Stevie starts, then cuts off in a hiccup. Steve’s sobbing a little bit, too, now. “Can you s-stay with me?”

“Yeah. Of course I will, Stevie.”

“I— I don’t w-wanna be alone—”

“No, no, no, hey,” Steve murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Stevie’s head. “You’re not gonna be alone, sweetheart. I’m with you. I’m not gonna leave you alone. We’re not gonna be alone—”

*

Steve wakes to the sound of the door pushing open. Half-blind with tears, he can dizzily make out a human figure, haloed by fading orange sunlight.

“Stevie?” Mamo calls.

He can’t get out a reply; waves one hand limply, instead.

Mamo closes the door behind himself, then comes quietly to Steve’s side and settles down with an arm around his back. “You’re shivering, _keiki_. You cold?”

Steve nods.

“You helped him?”

He nods again.

Mamo wraps both arms around him and pulls him close.

Steve clings, without apology, mewling and sniffling into Mamo’s shoulder, awash in the comfort of another human simply holding him. Looking after him.

“It’s okay, Stevie,” Mamo whispers. “I’m with you.”

And with those words, the soft, sluggish tears all at once give way to something jagged and loud and unrepentantly ugly—

And still, Mamo holds him.

Steve doesn’t know how long he stays like this, scream-sobbing like a little kid, spewing tears and snot and drool all over Mamo’s shirt. He doesn’t know; but it’s a long, long time.

Mamo doesn’t speak. Just keeps one arm around his neck and shoulders and one around his lower back and he cradles him, and kisses the top of his head, over and over and over.

Eventually Steve manages to peel himself away. He folds in two, rests his head on his knees and pulls in deep, juddering breaths while Mamo rubs between his shoulder blades.

His ears ring like sirens; his mouth tastes like the first morning of a two-day hangover. His chest aches, the bruise soul deep. But Mamo’s there. Mamo’s with him, familiar and steady and kind, now running arthritic fingers through his hair.

“How are you feeling, Stevie?” the man asks, eventually.

“’m okay,” Steve gets out, mumbly, breathless. “I feel like—I just feel like—I dunno. I dunno, Mamo.”

“You don’t have to. Hey, don’t move,” Mamo orders, quietly. “I’ll be back. Thirty seconds.” And he goes.

But then a damp towel, warm and rough, appears against Steve’s his skin, as Mamo begins to clean him up. Blots across his cheeks, around his nose and eyes. His face feels stiff and itchy with tears, upper lip crusty with snot, and it’s such a relief—actual, physical relief— to have it all wiped away, that he very nearly weeps again.

“Hey, no, no,” Mamo hushes. He cups one warm hand around the back of Steve’s neck. “Everything’s all right, Stevie. No more crying, now. Let’s get some air.”

He can’t speak; only nods. Lets Mamo get him to his feet, and take him downstairs and out to the beach on legs that feel as though they’ve spent the whole day treading water.

And yes, the air helps. The sound of the waves helps and the familiar give of sand under his feet, and Steve finds himself pulling free from Mamo’s grasp, stumbling to the waterline, crashing down in the surf. The ocean washes over his hands, his legs. He digs his fingers into the sand and hangs his head, pulling in massive gulps of salty night air that seem to fill his lungs properly, for the first time in months.

Holy shit. Just— holy shit.

He found the ghost. He _was_ the ghost.

It took two decades, and a lot more Worst Days; but he’s finally unstuck himself from the first Worst Day of his life.

Steve shouts. Tips sideways, plopping into the surf with an ungentle splash. The water soaks his clothing, laps at his hair. There’s salt in his mouth and sand in his ear and he laughs, cackles, because despite all this he feels fine. Exhausted, maybe, but fine. Feels safe and in control and doesn’t feel like throwing up and doesn’t feel like crying.

He’s unstuck.

 _Free_.

Mamo looms over him, fond amusement on his face. “You are _drenched_ , Stevie.”

“Yeah,” Steve grunts. “Wasn’t thinkin’.”

“It happens,” Mamo replies, with a little shrug, then reaches down and helps get Steve to his feet. “You’ve had a long day.”

“Yeah, I really have.”

“You need a shower and a good night’s sleep, no way around that. Only question is, could you eat some dinner, too?”

Steve honestly can’t remember the last time he ate real food. Unfortunately he also can’t remember the last time he went real grocery shopping. “I have no idea what’s in that fridge, Mamo,” he admits, but Mamo just smiles fondly.

“I’ll work out something, _keiki_.”

His legs feel like their old selves now, but he doesn’t protest when Mamo keeps a hand on his back as they make their way up to the house. Inside it looks brighter than it has in months. “Shower,” Mamo orders, and Steve nods obediently; goes easily up the steps with no queasiness, no shortness of breath. Goes up, to the big bedroom, the one that’s his now. In the bathroom he turns on the shower, then peels off his sodden clothes and steps under the pouring water.

He scrubs himself head to toe, twice. And though he’s never put much stock in ritual—respect, of course, but no real belief—he can’t look at this as anything else but a cleansing. A purification of a human being, not just the removal of grime from skin.

Twenty minutes later he pads downstairs in sweatpants, and a t-shirt of Danny’s that he found in his laundry and never returned. In kitchen, Mamo’s tending a frying pan.

He should help by getting plates out or something; instead he drops into a chair at the table, pulls his feet up beside him and hugs his knees to his chest. Watches as Mamo gets two mugs out, slips a tea bag into each. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He hopes Mamo knows that that’s true, even though his throat’s worn kind of raw so his voice comes out low and croaky. Whatever Mamo thinks, he doesn’t comment. Just cracks some eggs into the frying pan and pushes them around with a spatula, waiting for the kettle to sound. When it does, he pours the water for tea. Brings the mugs to the table, then goes and turns off the stove and empties the frying pan into two cereal bowls.

Dinner, Steve sees, is jury-rigged fried rice. Just a pile of scrambled eggs and rice and freezer veggies with soy sauce, but his stomach growls so loudly at the sight of it that it might as well be a porterhouse. He rights himself in the chair and devours it without comment. When it’s gone, he sees that Mamo has also set out a glass of water and a cut-up mango for him, and he downs these too, then finally gets to his tea.

The warmth of it in his hands reminds him how sleepy he actually is. He takes a few little sips then puts the mug aside and props his head on his palms.

“Don’t stay awake on my account,” Mamo comments, voice gentle. “You’re not hosting me. I can get the dishwasher running and show myself out. Or stay for the night, if it would help you sleep?”

Steve feels his own smile against his fingers. “You’re the best, Mamo. But I’m okay now, really. You don’t need to stay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” he tries to say, but it turns into a yawn. “But I think I’ll head to bed now. If you’re not offended.”

“Definitely not,” Mamo replies, reaching over and squeezing Steve’s arm. “Can I get you anything before you go up?”

Steve shakes his head.

“Okay. Goodnight, _keiki_.”

“’night,” Steve mumbles, and pushes clumsily to his feet.

“Wait.”

Steve turns. Not sure what exactly he expects, but in any case, all he finds is Mamo gesturing him close. He laughs. Walks into the old man’s arms; finds himself strong enough to return the hug this time. Mamo pats his back as they pull apart.

“I got twenty years of those saved up, with your name on ‘em.” Mamo smiles. “So don’t be shy.”

“I won’t,” Steve whispers, smiling back.

“Good. Hey. I love you, okay? And your mom and dad, they both did too. A lot of people love you, Stevie. Just, know that.”

The words do to his heart what the tea did to his fingers, and what the hug did for his body, and Steve tucks his arms around his belly like he can wrap himself up in the warmth of this affection. Like it’s a blanket he can crawl inside to sleep.

He nods.

“Okay. Goodnight, Stevie.”

“Goodnight, Mamo,” Steve breathes.

Then he gets himself upstairs and into bed, and falls asleep before he can even worry about dreaming.

**Author's Note:**

> Two quick things:
> 
> 1) Steve tells Mamo that he doesn’t have PTSD. I’m not trying to make the claim that he doesn’t (in fact I think you could argue that this entire story is literally about him having either PTSD or situational depression). But at this point in his arc, I just don’t think Steve viewed himself as “really” having any mental illnesses— at least none that he’d been diagnosed with, or had put a name to. So, what he’s telling Mamo is true to the best of his knowledge, though perhaps not factually accurate.
> 
> 2) The plot of this story was partially inspired by a story from one of the TAPS/Ghost Hunters books. I was a bit obsessed in high school, and this one particular story has stuck with me in the years since then. TAPS tells the story of a "living residual haunting", in which a woman who was experiencing supernatural events realized that she was being "haunted" by her own childhood trauma. The lingering emotional energy manifested as a visible ghost of her as a child. The romantic in me was fascinated from a paranormal point of view; the skeptic in me was also fascinated, from a psychological point of view. In any case I thought it was a concept worth exploring, and Steve seemed the obvious character to explore it through.
> 
> All right then... sorry for the long notes. I hope you enjoyed! I've been working on this one for a while now, and it feels good to finally post it.


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